


Let love warm you

by behzaintfunny



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Canon Character of Color, Falling In Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, The author's ode to Mads Mikkelsen, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22513567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/pseuds/behzaintfunny
Summary: John Blake McClane is a young soldier trying to find his footing amidst the chaotic world of war. Clifford Unger is an adept captain, a leader of men, struggling to fight a battle of his own.Neither of them expected to find any close companionship in the most brutal of circumstances. Love, no less.
Relationships: Die-Hardman/Clifford Unger
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	Let love warm you

The first time he sees him, he is resting on the ground next to an empty barrack. His khaki shirt is messily opened, a cigarette dangling from his lips, beads of sweat travelling down his neck. The image is borderline pornographic, yet a bigger part of John feels as though he ought to be scared of this man, run for his life, not possibly come any closer.

The shotgun resting against his thigh and groin might be one of the reasons why. Just a thought.

Not that he was looking or anything.

"Are you Clifford Unger?" he asks, though as the words leave his mouth, he finds he hardly sounds like himself at all.

The man in question raises his eyes to observe him from head to toe, as though he is some sort of prey offering itself without the unnecessary pretense of a fight. The gaze isn't so much full of hunger, but of curiosity. He drags on his cigarette, and when he exhales, he cracks his neck ever so slightly. However, that only seems to cause him more discomfort, as his hand moves to quickly rub at the pained spot.

By all means, he is the picture of exhaustion - the cigarette is only held inbetween his fingers by sheer force of habit, and perhaps a little stubbornness.

"That's _Captain_ Unger for you." he mutters, a stray hand running through his unkempt hair. Its color reminds John of sandy beaches and warm summers, of days long gone. "For now, at least, _sir_ will suffice."

"Yes, sir." John mutters and he hates it already. All his life, he has dreamed of joining the military, but it is people like this that annoy him. Such superiority irks him.

He clears his throat to gather the Captain's attention as much as he can, "I was ordered to serve under you as you appear to be in need of assistance, sir."

One of Captain Unger's eyebrows is raised in blatant amusement as he puts out the cigarette against the gun's handle, little flickers of ash falling onto the already dry ground. It isn't soon before he fishes out another cigarette from his pocket. John thinks he ought to get used to this picture.

"Do I?" he asks and, for one terrifying second, John fears the Captain is going to laugh at him. "Funny you should mention that... I suppose I am in need of uh, _assistance_ , though I don't know how come your superiors have anything to do with it, if you know what I mean."

It is only by sheer power of will that John's hand doesn't run up to rub at his face, where he can definitely feel himself burning up in a blush. He grinds his teeth, not letting the man feed off of his momentary embarassment. The Captain's hand reaches to brush away at the hair on his forehead, warm like the sand itself.

"Forgive me, I should not have been so blunt." the Captain says, rubbing away at a tender spot inbetween his eyebrows. For a moment, John almost believes him. "Though I certainly do not object to that sort of assistance, if ever you offer. But, nevermind that."

As the Captain's free hand starts to rub away the sweat down his face, neck and, finally, his chest, eyes closed and lips letting out a quiet noise of pleasure, John finds himself looking away with such force that he pulls a muscle in his neck.

He looks down at his own feet instead, clad in leather boots, not at all appropriate attire for such scorching sunlight. Captain Unger's own feet are bare, dirty from too much walking, toes scrunched in some apparent sort of discomfort.

John simply closes his eyes and thinks of his family. He's seen enough.

"Your name, soldier."

His voice is gentle, yet undeniably commanding. Though he hates to admit it, John begins to understand how people follow this man. Only natural born leaders spark such emotions in people's heart with just a few simple words.

"John Blake McClane, sir."

"John." he tests the name out as it falls off his lips in a quiet murmur. The Captain's arms open in a slow, languid motion, his lips curling in a smirk. "Welcome to hell, John."

They _do_ say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. The same can be said about the war they were fighting.

\---

They go into battle the following morning. It is much sooner than John had originally expected.

Then again, expectations and war are two words that scarcely work together. He should have left them back home, with his father's stern gaze and his mother's cooking.

This was no place to raise worries. There was simply no time for that, as not even a second could be wasted.

He had barely found any sleep at all that night, disrupted by images of his mother and father, his childhood home and, most terrifyingly of all, his Captain. The cot was not comfortable in the slightest, as expected, and there were far too many people packed into one tent to begin with. John supposes he ought to get used to it as soon as possible, for not adapting considerably decreases his chances of survival. He falls asleep in his uniform, combat boots and all, the American eagle proudly sewn into his jacket.

It's almost ironic, really. The eagle is perpetually ready to fly away, and yet here he is, and escaping is virtually the last thing on his mind.

But eagles are predators, too.

John gets abruptly woken up by the piercing roaring of sirens, commotion outside the tent, and an unmistakable voice.

"Get up, you fools! To your arms! All of you are coming with me."

It's the same Clifford Unger, but in his eyes is a distinct spark of madness.

John looks around himself and sees only scared faces, most of the soldiers like himself only going into their first war, but not the Captain. No, Clifford Unger is not scared - momentarily, John begins to doubt whether anything can truly scare the man.

The Captain finishes off his cigarette in silence before readjusting the helmet on his head. On his face is a grin so crude it is almost inappopriate, all things considered.

Someone steps on John's feet when moving towards the entrance, someone else mistakes their helmet for his. He grabs his shotgun with repressed fear, rushing towards his Captain. Unger gives him a pat on the shoulder, and says no more.

His ears are filled with constant screaming, but it is his Captain's voice that reaches him more clearly than all others.

"Stand your ground!" his scream pierces the air. It is not the sly jokester he had met yesterday, the man who made his blood boil with repressed annoyance.

No, his Captain is simply driven by a most primitive will to survive. It is not blood that flows through his veins, but hatred.

John watches swarms of soldiers running their way, overcoming hills, stones and vast woodland, never stopping or slowing down. It's what he has been taught to fight all his life. Suddenly, it feels much more threatening than whatever he had been prepared for. His boot digs into the ground as he exhales shakily.

"Reload!" the Captain orders. Tens of soldiers, including himself, follow suit. In the distance, the sun rises with a soft glimmer.

Now in position, the Captain turns to regard them. He wears a compass on his chest that is fluttering rapidly, just as fast as his heart ought to be beating. The air reeks of adrenaline, and it is clear that Unger thrives off of it.

His confidence is scarily contagious.

The Captain holds his shotgun close to his heart. When he walks, the earth moves with him, as though it is also scared of him. Oddly enough, John feels as though so long he is close to him, he might survive. He would not wish to be on the opposing side of the conflict against this man.

"Gentlemen!" the Captain's voice is harsh when he calls out to his soldiers, as the roar of battle gets ever closer and closer, "Let's have some fun."

\---

His world is ending.

A grenade had just exploded at his side.

His head rings with an odd ache as he feels himself losing his balance. At some point, the rain started pouring onto them, obscuring his vision even further. John falls onto the ground weakly, watching rays of mud and blood paint his hand.

It never quietens. It never ends.

He feels himself edging closer and closer to unconsciousness before he is abruptly pulled to his feet by a pair of strong hands.

It is his Captain, because who else could it possibly be? It cannot possibly be God; no, God doesn't exist, not amidst war and misery - they are fighting this battle alone.

Captain Unger grips at his shoulders with such force he could hardly imagine coming from the man, his previous exhaustion buried away in the ground like the liters of blood slowly seeping into it. It takes mere seconds for John to regain his full awareness.

"You are not going to die tonight." his Captain tells him forcefully, eyes boring invisible holes into his skull. John nods feverently, attempting to free himself from his hold and failing miserably. "Understand me?!"

He screams off the top of his lungs, "Yes, sir!"

It's that simple. He doesn't die tonight. After all, his Captain forbade him from it.

They live to fight another day.

\---

John doesn't sleep that night.

In all fairness, he tries to. Upon closing his eyes though, he is met with the image of hundreds of bloodied bodies, unmoving, with terrified expressions on their faces. The last emotion in their hearts was fear, similar to what he had felt when pulling the trigger, over and over again. It is no surprise that his feet lead him outside the tent instead, where he seeks solace beside the river's bank.

For the end of such a cruel day, it is scarily calm.

The full moon shines in the middle of the black sky, a comforting presence in time of need. Even the water slowed down, instead flowing more like a little rivulet would. John sits on the cold grass with his face inbetween his hands. Unconsciously, the tips of his fingers wedge into the corners of his eyes, where they gently hold them open.

His clothing is still covered in freshly dried blood. He tries not to think of that as much as humanly possible, a thin woolen blanket draped across his shoulders. Unlike the day, the night is cold, biting at his skin just as fiercely as the bullets pierced soldiers' bodies, one by one, like a sick masterpiece.

John hears the footsteps behind him without having to move his head. His hand searches for his gun, but he appears to have left it beside his cot. He lets out a sigh he didn't even know he was holding.

"Hey, you." the voice is uncannily gentle, as the Captain situates himself next to him without so much as a permission, only a muffled groan. "You certainly look like you could use some company."

"What makes you think that?" he snaps before thinking, "...Sir?"

Unger doesn't provide him with an explanation, only shrugs. Even though John could have sworn it wasn't there before, he is now holding a cigarette in hand, searching inside the many pockets of his coat for the lighter.

The Captain looks like he has been through hell and back, and though that is not far from the truth, the sight is still very far from comforting.

Streaks of blood flow all the way down his eyes, upon his chapped lips, and all over his chin. It has dried so thoroughly it almost looks black altogether. Amongst all the grime, his eyes shine with a distant sheen, the faintest brown, warm like summer. It almost makes him look less like the Devil himself and more like the offspring of an angel. Though his face in itself is all sharp edges and rough skin, full of imperfections and early signs of growing weary and old, he is still of somewhat royal beauty - effortless, even when maimed with human blood.

John looks back at the river when his Captain catches him staring, so quickly his neck makes a quiet snap from the impact. The Captain chuckles softly before taking a drag from his cigarette, the first of many.

"I was just like you once." he tells him, voice low and hoarse, more private than he has heard him speak before, "It's perfectly normal to be afraid out there. Hell, if serving your country was a measly and simple thing to do, anyone would do it. But it's not."

He stops to take another inhale of the smoke that settles deep within his lungs, little particles which, just like him, only know death.

"Does it ever get easier?"

If the Captain is surprised to hear his quiet question, he does not show it.

"I'm not sure. I suppose my kind of understanding of war is different from yours. I don't know how to help you."

The Captain extends his hand towards him, the cigarette dangling on the edge of his fingers. The question doesn't need to be spoken, but John still finds himself edging to look into his eyes, if only just to be sure.

He has never smoked before. It was simply unthought of.

John comes from a family of good Christians, and only joined the military to make good use of his genetically inherited strength, and to help the people he loves. Though he has blood on his hands now, he is confident in thinking he may one day stand before God not as a sinner, but as a good man. The cigarette is an uncomfortable weight in his hand, despite being feather light.

As he takes his first drag, he finds he is unsure whether that is indeed the only bridge he is crossing with such a simple, yet frowned upon action.

He wonders whether that is what the Captain's lips taste of.

As much as the thought pains him to admit, the smoke burns unpleasantly inside his lungs, but is oddly calming at the same time. He gives it back not long after, once the thoughts in his head start racing with a bit too much freedom.

The Captain makes a non-committal sound as the cigarette re-enters his mouth, "You should be proud of yourself, John. You're tough to kill."

A little taken aback, he gulps before unsurely speaking, "Thank you, Captain."

"Cliff." he says, his lips curled around the cigarette in a gentle, lopsided smile, "My name is Cliff."

John had never expected to be friends with the Devil, but the pull in his chest towards his Captain - towards _Cliff_ \- cannot possibly be considered evil.

When the Captain starts humming some tune underneath his nose, quiet and reserved, as though John wasn't there at all, he has no voice to speak with. It is as though all his worries escape his head with each murmured tune, just like that.

He doesn't think much of the warm feeling inside his head, fondness unlike anything he has ever felt before, but purely enjoys the quiet humming and whistling coming from Cliff.

That night will prove to haunt him for long after.

Forever, perhaps.

\---

Just a few days later, they relocate camp.

Men talk of battles bloodier and deadlier than this war had seen before. Fear permanently settles among the soldiers, a sturdy presence not even Clifford Unger can fully get rid of.

They march for what feels like centuries, the weather around them relentless in its fury. John often finds himself falling behind in line when his feet begin to give up, lacking even when his heart is striving to go forward. They scout the terrain around them, full of hills and forests that are unfathomably dry, as though the earth itself were dying from this war, as though they were the ones that had killed it for good. They know they are going to a place that is good, that is warm, that has beds they have grown foreign to and actual walls that may keep out some of the nightmares.

It doesn't make the trek any easier.

He scarcely sees Cliff during the march altogether, and it leads his mind to terrible places. John finds himself distanced from his fellow soldiers, instead silently pondering the nature of war more often than he'd like to.

The cycle is endless.

Kill, run, kill, try not to die yourself. Only, it has been his Captain that has contributed to the latter part most. It is as though somehow, even on the battlefield, amidst the gruelling rain of the bullets, his eyes were ever on him.

_You are not going to die tonight._

John quickly figures out the hidden meaning behind these words, though it is not easy for him to fully accept them. Still, the cycle continues, and though he doesn't always get out without a scratch, he comes out of it alive, and that alone matters.

At night, it is not God that John prays to. Not anymore.

\---

His feet find their way into Cliff's bed before his mind can even so much as begin to reason against such an act.

"John," the Captain regards him fondly upon his unexpected entrance. He wears a pair of old-looking glasses, an opened book in his lap.

If John blinks, he can almost omit the shotgun balanced against the makeshift bed frame, the muddied boots on the ground, or how coarse the bedsheets seem. He can almost see them somewhere else - in a cozy apartment in the suburbs, not a care in the world, only each other.

Cliff is beautiful.

It doesn't matter in the slightest where they are, because that appears to be his constant way of being.

"Talk to me, John. Something seems to be bothering you." Cliff moves up in his seat, putting out his cigarette and making no attempt to reach for another, "What's wrong?"

"I want..."

He falls silent, the words catching deep down in his chest. There is thousands of things he wants to tell him, wants to share with him, and yet he falls short of saying them.

"What do you want, John?"

Cliff's legs are messily tangled in the sheets, opened, but not quite daringly, and he does not change his demeanor in John's presence whatsoever. He is shirtless, and his dog tag contrasts against his sunkissed skin. Cliff pats gently at the space beside him, a silent invitation.

John sits on the edge of the bed as it gives way with a soft creak, legs stubbornly touching the floor. He doesn't face Cliff, _cannot_ possibly face Cliff when he is so open and comfortable in his presence - Adonis embodied, the most perfect picture of sin. His very own San Sebastian, the least saint of them all, with all the bodily flaws a human has ought to posess, and a demeanour that dominates the room by simply _being_. All the while, John can practically feel his Captain's gaze on his back, ever so present.

He whispers, "I want to go home, I think."

A part of him hopes the Captain doesn't even hear him.

Reluctantly, he moves to properly look at Cliff when the silence becomes a little too much for him to bear.

John feels oddly alert in his own skin, as every fibre of his body screams at him to stay calm and collected. Truthfully, calm is far from where his mind is, but that in itself is okay as long as Cliff, miraculously, doesn't take any note of it.

His mind screams yes, come closer, and yet his body is as rigid as the trunk of a tree. Cliff, on the contrary, regards him with a gentle smile on his face, perpetually at ease despite how out of place that feels to John.

"We will." the Captain says, stretching like a tired cat, the freckles on his arms reaching all the way to his now exposed belly. "If there's anything I can do for you, I can promise that I will take you home someday, when this is all over. _Safely_."

The _we_ doesn't go unnoticed.

"You don't even know where I'm from." John tells him, more softly than he had originally intended to.

"Your family is from Ohio."

If anything, the sudden surprise makes John's muscles loosen slightly. It is now impossible not to move towards Cliff with what he can only guess is a pretty pathetic frown, if his Captain's grin is anything to go by.

"It's in your file, you know." he tells him, a lone hand reaching to take off his glasses, to fiddle them in his hold, "Plus, your accent betrays you. There's just something about it. I can tell we live a whole world away from each other."

The conversational tone of Cliff's voice successfully eases most of John's previous anxieties, as he finds himself relaxing more with each moment, to the point of sitting alongside Cliff, his back against the measly bedframe.

"New York, born and bred." Cliff murmurs, before the question is even asked, "Though my parents are both Danish immigrants, which is why you may find my accent a bit... tricky, if you will. Unpleasant to the ear."

"I don't think your voice is harsh, or unpleasant." John finds himself saying before any second thoughts. Were this any different time, such statements would be considered normal - he had complimented Cliff before on those scarce occasions of weakness, was met with a kind smile and a curt nod, and that had been the end of it.

Now, though, it is impossible not to compliment the man without missing the way his breathing hitches, _seeing_ the very change on his chest, or the way his tongue flickers against his bottom lip in an unconscious act of perplexity.

"These last few weeks have been... Tough. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about." John rubs away at a sore spot inbetween his eyebrows. It feels odd to finally open up to someone after such a long period of silence.

"I think you've been handling it pretty well."

Cliff's voice is gentle when he talks to him. John cannot help but notice the sheet beginning to cover less and less of his torso and thighs, and yet it is not his intial instinct to run away. Not this time.

"In the middle of that chaos, it was you that made me believe I can do it. I can survive. Your voice on the battlefield..." John speaks quietly, for it is only in such intimacy that he feels safe to say what he really thinks,

"It sparked such confidence in me I never knew I had before. You told me I wouldn't die, and I knew that to be the truth. I don't know how you keep on doing that."

Cliff smiles gently before speaking, "It's my job; it's what I do."

"No, you don't understand." John snaps, voice wavering, eyes observing the slight confusion drawn on Cliff's face, "Why do you keep on saving _me_?"

Cliff falls silent for a moment, face contorted in a gentle frown, considering his words. It is the longest few seconds in John's life.

"I suppose I have seen enough death already for one lifetime. It's what I'm used to." Cliff begins, a lone hand rubbing away at his beard nervously, "But you are not like me. You are not death - you're life. And... I think it's high time I took some interest in living."

Neither of them know which one closes the little distance between the two, can only wonder and gasp when it is finally closed.

John wasn't wrong about Cliff's lips tasting of cigarette smoke, but not quite right either. More than anything, Cliff tastes beautifully, unbearably human.

The world is perfectly silent around them when they kiss. It feels in that second as though no sudden attack could ever disrupt the peace between the two. What John gives, Cliff takes earnestly. His fingertips are painting invisible masterpieces along his jaw, less sharp than the Captain's own. John's hand instinctively reaches for Cliff's skin, tan and burning up underneath his touch. His muscles tense ever so slightly whenever he brushes against them, his own hands much colder in comparison. Cliff only breaks the kiss briefly to take a rough inhale, his lips plump and vibrant like the most fresh cherries.

John is overcome by a sudden realization that if he were to die in this war, he would regret nothing.

The Captain's hands reach to caress his body, rough in all their dryness and calluses, but they emit an unmistakable warmth that reaches deeper than simply the outermost layer of his skin. It's the picture of the most beautiful contrast, as they explore, roam and caress.

John feels himself surrendering to the man with the greatest ease. If Cliff had asked him to shoot himself then and there, he would have likely done it - ended his life without so much as a second thought.

They don't fuck.

The Captain makes love to him all night and they speak no word of it the following day.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts since the end of December, so here it is. Finally!
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated as always!


End file.
